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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154777">Mon ange guardien en haut d’une calanque</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeling_Super_Super_Super/pseuds/Feeling_Super_Super_Super'>Feeling_Super_Super_Super</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Girl Meets World</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Domestic Fluff, F/F, One Shot, Post-Canon, and she paints a picture of herself and riley, as in the art form, i like impressionism its my favourite style leave me alone, impressionism, it's cute, maya's in art school</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:09:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154777</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feeling_Super_Super_Super/pseuds/Feeling_Super_Super_Super</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Maya paints a picture of her favourite two people in the world &lt;3</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maya Hart/Riley Matthews</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mon ange guardien en haut d’une calanque</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi! i have the self-control of a toddler! and i've written a*nother* fic for a*nother* fandom. how fun. i promise i'll maybe get the next chapter of the atla fic written and published sometime in the vicinity of the two-week schedule i vaguely mentioned deciding i might stick to. if you're waiting for an update on anything else i've written then sorry babe idk what to tell ya.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I adjust the photo on the stand in front of me, which I’ve gone to all the trouble of printing out and putting in the largest frame I could find within three minutes on Amazon, because it keeps tilting somehow. It’s of me and Riley, taken by Farkle as usual, on a cliff in – I think this one was when we were in France, staying at Marseilles. I’ve been walking way too close to the edge, dancing along it nearly, and Riley’s been going absolutely mental. She’s shouting at me to get back from there, and I’m responding by moving further back because of <em>course </em>I am. By the time Farkle takes the photo, I’m leaning halfway over the edge, and Riley suddenly grabs my arm to stop me falling, looking back at Farkle and Lucas, and the photo perfectly captures the expression on her face of utter bewilderment at my carelessness. I have a perfect disinterested look in the centre, and it’s framed underneath by a layer of cliff and then me against a backdrop of frothy waves and then a much clearer blue sky behind me.</p><p>It’s one of my favourite photos of us, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to paint it all semester. I wanted to save it until we got to the later French styles, because they’re my favourite way to do portraits, so I decided to do it this weekend when our assignment was to imitate Impressionism. There were a few other specifications, which of course I’m following as well – it has to be oil on canvas, for example, and we have to “show conscious consideration for the effect texture has on the appearance of movement and fluidity within the painting”. But mostly I’m not thinking about those, just going with the picture as it develops from the photo.</p><p>I’ve been going at it all morning, and Riley’s come through four times already with coffee, trying to convince me to take a break. I’ve refused every time – I don’t want to stop until I at least get my face and the shape of Riley’s arm to the stage where I can focus on the framing and the background this evening and then connect the parts together tomorrow. The figures are coming together nicely so far, which is a pleasant change from my usual difficulty with painting people. I’ve managed to get a nice effect of blushing on Riley’s cheeks using smaller strokes of red over her yellow, and I’m working on something similar on myself with a different colour. I’ve gone through a few trees’ worth of old newspaper mixing different colours to try and get a good tone for my blush. I’m still working on it. The rest of my face is nearly done, though, and I’m about as happy as I think I can hope for with my expression.</p><p>Riley comes in again, wandering through with a macchiato for me, but stops before the painting is visible. I have very strict rules about when Riley’s allowed to see my paintings if they include herself, which she has learned from experience not to disobey. I wave her into the room, though, as I’m confident enough that her part of the canvas is mostly complete, or will be shortly.</p><p>“What’s this of?” she asks, leaning on my shoulder. I put my brush down away from the canvas and turn to face her, placing a kiss on her cheek.</p><p>“It’s us, at those cliffs in Marseilles. Remember? When we were –”</p><p>“Oh god, is this when you were leaping about right next to the edge?” she asks, putting on a mock-horrified expression. “I can’t believe you would make me remember that. It was terrifying.”</p><p>“I know, kitten,” I whisper, nuzzling my nose against hers. “But it’s also a really nice photo, and the background is perfect for trying out Impressionism. So I’m going to paint it, and my art teacher will say it’s really nice and I’ll title it something silly like ‘Bury Your Gays: DIY Edition’.”</p><p>Riley scrunches her nose up in that cute confused expression that I so badly want to paint one day, and softly says, “Okay.”</p><p>I pat her on the shoulder and whisper, “You look pretty in it.” She smiles up at me and I give her another little kiss on her nose.</p><p>“Tell me about Impressionism,” she says. This is another thing we do. Whenever I’m painting a new style, which is usually every two weeks or so, she asks me about it and I tell her what it’s like, the techniques and history behind it, all the stuff we learn in the first class before we do any actual painting. And she listens, sometimes asking extra questions to prove she’s paying attention to me, until I forget that I’m talking about it and we move onto other subjects, or I trail off and just think about how I would paint a portrait of Riley making whichever face she’s making at that moment.</p><p>So I tell her about Impressionism. And she listens intently, and asks questions and makes observations that I hadn’t even thought of, and she probably even learns something from my rambling. And I don’t listen to a word I say. Instead, I’m focusing on hiding the flicking of my eyes between Riley’s face, the painting and the photo as I compare the three of them. I do this quite a lot, studying her face. Noting all the imperfections and shapes and lines and structures, deciding how I would depict this feature in that style using the other technique.</p><p>Eventually I must trail off completely, or start talking garbage, because suddenly I feel the <em>click</em> of eye contact she starts speaking. I sort of half-hear her as I snap out of studying-my-girlfriend’s-face mode, and she smiles kindly at me. I resist the urge to kiss her right there and then, because we haven’t quite completed the ritual. Instead, she asks, “Are you okay, baby?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m good,” I respond, and then Riley sort of hums and I know she believes me. She lifts my macchiato up to my face and I take a little sip, and then we giggle at the ridiculousness of that. I kind of wish we had a photo of that, so I could paint it.</p><p>There’s another thing I do a lot, is think of things I’d like to paint. I kind of feel like maybe I should do this for university or something, haha. I should hire Farkle or Zay or someone to be mine and Riley’s personal photographer, documenting all the things that I’d like to make a picture of, someday.</p><p>“Good,” Riley says softly, snapping me out of my thoughts once again. “How long do you think until you finish this one?”</p><p>“By tomorrow afternoon, I’m hoping. I’ve got our faces mostly perfected, and the backgrounds are probably gonna be quicker. I’ll fix the colour in my cheek last, then touch you up and hopefully that should be it.”</p><p>“Good,” Riley repeats. “What are you gonna title it?”</p><p>“I told you, sunshine, it’s gonna be called ‘Me Almost Dying Because Marseilles Is Homophobic’,” I giggle, ignoring Riley when she elbows me in the ribs.</p><p>“Seriously,” she cries. “It should have a good title! It’s a good picture.”</p><p>“I don’t really know,” I admit to keep her happy. “Maybe something like… ‘<em>Mon ange guardien en haut d’une calanque’</em>. That sounds nice and pretentiously French.”</p><p>“That’s really pretty,” she says without asking what it means. The last of my self-control runs out around then, and I lean forward and kiss her, and all I’m thinking is, <em>god would I love to paint this.</em></p>
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